No One (Arya Stark)
by Kiara Biersack
Summary: Meya Storm is a bastard of Robert Baratheon, thirteen years old. She's been acknowledged, but not legitimized. She's only acknowledged because of Robert's wife, Cersei, for reasons unknown to her. Robert requests sword training lessons for her from a man called Syrio Forel. During these lessons she meets Arya Stark. The girls quickly form a tight-knit bond that won't be broken.
1. Prologue

Meya Storm did not know what drew her to Syrio Forel. Perhaps it was his Braavosi accent. Maybe it was his charisma. In her mind, it was his unfathomable skills at swordplay, or, as he called it, dancing.

He held a sword like it was an extension of his own arm, never dropping it, never letting it fall too far from his grip. He never told Meya how he got to be so brilliant with a sword, he only responded with 'I was the first sword to the Sealord of Braavos.'

In a way, Meya knew this was just him bragging about a fancy title he'd once held. But she loved Syrio partly in her mind. He treated her kindly, he treated her like his own daughter. He called her his little assassin, always complimenting her on her skills at sneaking. Sometimes she was his little princess, but she always got angry at him for that nickname.

Their lessons were short, but plenty. Meya's father, King Robert Baratheon, had gifted her the lessons after learning of her desire to swing a sword. Meya was one of Robert's bastards, and only the second to be acknowledged by her royal father. The first was a boy called Edric Storm. He was eleven, two years younger than Meya and not born of the same mother as she.

Meya did not remember her mother. She had been two when the tavern wench had made the long journey from Storm's End to King's Landing, requesting that Robert take their daughter, as she was grievously ill. She had died the morning after Robert took Meya.

Meya was not sure how she liked King's Landing. It was a large city, the bustling capitol of Westeros and it reeked of death and sex. Meya lived in the castle among Robert's trueborn children, but she often visited the poorer parts of the city. Many times she found herself on the Street of Steel, speaking kindly with a blacksmith's apprentice called Gendry, who bore a striking resemblance to Robert in his youth. Gendry and Meya became quite good friends, and she began to suspect that he had feelings for her, feelings that she did not return.

While living in the Red Keep, Meya was forced to surrender herself to the will of Robert's eldest trueborn child, Prince Joffrey Baratheon.

Joffrey looked like his mother, Cersei Lannister. He had the proud, arrogant features of a Lannister, as well as the golden blond hair and green eyes. Had his mind not been clouded by a sadistic and cruel veil, he could almost have been quite handsome. He was a boy of thirteen, and Meya hated him with every bone in her body.

Joffrey liked torture. He liked to torture Meya and his younger siblings, especially. Meya often locked herself away in her chambers, making sure that Joffrey would not send his personal guard, Sandor Clegane, to come for her. Sandor frightened her to no extent. He was the size of three men, and his dark eyes could stop a man dead in his tracks. His face was marred by twisted scars given to him by his elder brother, Gregor. But he was the only thing that stood between Meya and Joffrey. And more often than not, he was the only thing keeping her between life and death.

When it came to Joffrey's torture of Meya, he took no limits. While he insisted that he could always, _always_ make the torture worse, Meya was sure that it was always his worst. Many nights Joffrey forced himself upon her, despite her cries that even if she were a bastard, they shared a father. He was the beginning and end of her suffering in the capitol.

But then there was always Syrio.

If Joffrey had been particularly awful one night, Syrio would sit with Meya. He'd hold her tightly against his side, his arm wrapped around her. Sometimes, if he were able, he'd bring her sweet summerwine, something Robert seldom granted her permission to drink. They would drink themselves silly, laughing and telling stories to each other. No matter how many times Meya asked him about Braavos, however, he would not speak of his old life.

Robert did not speak with his daughter often. On her name days, he would hold a special feast. It was small, and private, but she was always happy that he remembered when she was born. Robert had other matters to attend to than his bastard's happiness. If she wished to speak with him, then she was forced to take an audience with him while he addressed his subjects. Meya loved him, despite this. He was her father, and she knew no other family.

Except for Syrio.

Syrio loved her. She knew this well. He never outright said it, but it was a mutual agreement that they loved each other. It was a bond between them that was acknowledged one night, when they were both sat on the stairs of Syrio's training room. "Meya," he'd said, while she rested her head on his shoulder and fought sleep. "If I died tomorrow, would you mourn me?"

"Of course!" Meya had cried, dragging herself from her near sleep. "I would mourn you every day for the rest of my life."

Syrio had smiled and laid a kiss to Meya's head. "Thank you, my little assassin. It is good to know that I have someone who will miss me when I'm gone. I was fearing that there would be no one."

They sat in silence for the rest of the night, until Meya had to return to her chambers for bed.

She did not know that even after she left, Syrio remained sitting. He sat there the entire night, thinking of the young girl that he cared for so much. And he vowed that he would never let any harm become of her.


	2. One

Meya did not know what to think of Arya Stark. She walked with purpose, but seemed anxious when entering Syrio's training room. "You are late, boy," Syrio stated, and he spun around to face the little lady.

Behind his back he held two wooden sparring swords. Meya held one as well, and tapped it's tip agaisnt the stone floor, watching Syrio closely. "Tomorrow you will be here at midday," the dancing master continued.

"Who are you?" Arya Stark asked, confusion evident in her face.

Syrio twisted his wrists, bringing the swords forward. "Your dancing master, Syrio Forel."

Arya smiled slightly, intruiged by the Braavosi standing before her.

Syrio tossed one of the swords, and Arya's fingertips grazed the handle before the wood clattered to the floor. "Tomorrow you will catch it," Syrio said. "Now pick it up."

While Arya picked the sword up, she looked at Meya. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm Meya Storm. King Robert's bastard. You're Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard, the Hand of the King," Meya recited.

She had learned when she was young that when introducing herself, it'd be best to acknowledge the titles of whoever she was speaking to. "How do you know me?" Arya asked, and Meya shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm a bastard. I have to know things to survive in the Red Keep," she offered.

"Enough talk," Syrio stated, though he smiled at Meya. "Show me how you hold your sword, boy," he said to Arya.

Arya nodded, clasping the sword tightly in her hands. Syrio tsked quietly. "That is not the way, boy. This is not a greatsword that is needing two hands to swing it," he stated.

Arya paused before gripping it with one hand. "It's too heavy," she complained.

"It is heavy as it needs to be to make you strong."

He tossed his sword, catching it and letting it lie flat against his palm. "Just so."

Arya smiled. Syrio tossed his sword again, catching it in midair. "One hand is all that is needed. Now you are standing all wrong. Turn your body sideface."

She did as told, keeping her back straight. "Yes," Syrio nodded.

He looked her over, offering her a smile. "You are skinny. That is good. I imagine you are fast, like Meya. The target is small and quick. Now the grip- - let me see," he urged.

Arya raised her arm as high as she could. Syrio took it quickly, examining the placement of her fingers. "Yes," he murmured, moving her fingers slightly to allow a lesser grip. "The grip must be delicate."

He released her arm, and Meya noted that she'd have to get used to wood falling on stone. "What if I drop it?" Arya asked.

Syrio stiffened, stretching his arm and pointing his sword at Meya. "The steel must be part of your arm. Can you drop part of your arm? No."

He began to circle the eleven-year-old. "Nine years Syrio Forel was first sword to the Sealord of Braavos. He knows these things. You must listen to me, boy."

"I'm a girl," Arya snapped.

"Boy, girl- - you are a sword, that is all."

He tsked again, showing her just how to place her fingers. "That is the grip," he said.

When Arya tried to mimic him, that only strengthened his annoyance. "You are not holding a battle axe. You are holding- -" he began.

"A needle," Arya interrupted, a grin on her face.

Meya smiled. "Exactly," she told the younger girl.

"Yes," Syrio chuckled. "Just so. Now we will begin the dance. Remember, child, this is not the dance of the Westeros we are learning. The knight's dance, hacking and hammering. This is the Bravo's dance. The water dance. It is swift, and sudden."

He swung his sword down, pointing it at Arya's chest. She leaped back, her dark eyes wide with surprise. He straightened. "All men are made of water, do you know this?" he asked, pressing the tip of the sword to Arya's stomach. "If you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die. Meya, come here."

Meya stood, hurrying to Syrio's side. If there was one thing she knew, it was do as Syrio says. He looked between the two girls, nodding and smiling. "Now, you are going to try and strike Meya."

Arya seemed confused. "How long has she been training?" she asked.

Syrio smirked. "If you are questioning Meya's skills, then I will tell you that she is almost as good as me. Almost."

He lowered to Meya's height, whispering in her ear. "Do not go easy on her. She needs to learn, and you can help her."

Meya nodded, grinning at Syrio's faith in her skills. "I'll do my absolute best," she stated.

She stepped forward, smiling at Arya. "Go on," she urged. "Hit me."

Arya charged forward with a shout, Meya twisting away from her. "Too slow," she teased.

The younger girl tried again, but Meya was faster. Their swords crashed together. "Almost," Meya smirked.

With each try, Arya was deflected. She tried a low hit, but Meya leaped over the sword, bringing her own up and pressing it to Arya's neck. "You're dead now, little lady."

"I'm not a lady," Arya snapped.

"Then I'm not a bastard. I should be dining with the princes and princess, then."

Arya took the moment of distractedness as a chance. She jabbed her sword forward, barely missing Meya's nose as the elder girl leaned back away from the wood. "That was cheating, little lady," she scolded lightly.

"Stop calling me a lady."

"Stop cheating."

Arya charged, and Meya started to twist away. And then she was falling. She hit the floor, and Arya grinned, pointing her sword at Meya's throat. "Now you're dead, _princess_ ," she stated.

"I'm not a princess, little lady."

"You're a cunt, that's what you are."

"Harsh words for such a small girl."

Syrio chuckled. "You girls are going to get along. It may take a long time, but you will get along."

From the doorway, Arya's father, Eddard, watched the two girls spar. "I'm not that small!" Arya argued.

Meya rolled her eyes, leaping forward onto her feet. She rolled on her heels, smirking. "You are. But it's good that you're small. Very good."

Arya smiled at that. "You're not very small at all."

"But I'm faster than you."

Eddard smiled. He watched the girls spar for a long time, jesting each other all the while.


End file.
